The Place Where Monsters Are Made
by TheHttydRaven
Summary: What if Watkins had taken Malcolm to the woods instead of the house in 1x11? What if he put Malcolm through his trials? Will Malcolm survive what the Junkyard Killer has in store for him? Heavy changes from canon. Heavy whump and eventual fluff. :)


Malcolm should've known that this case wasn't going to end well, even though he had been forcibly removed from the case it didn't mean that it was over for him.

He should've known when he found the picture of Turner with the damned cop at the most convenient time, he should've known that something was wrong when he was in that house.

But he hadn't realized, and now Owen Shannon was dead.

And Malcolm was currently being taken to a location that he didn't know. And he didn't like his chances of survival.

Malcolm had woken up in the trunk of a car, his warm body placed next to the cold and bloodied one of Shannon, who occupied the trunk with him.

The loud noise of the engine filled his ears along with the thumping sound oh his heart, blood rushing through his ears as Malcolm pressed himself against the opposite side of the trunk from the corpse of the cop he had been investigating with, the consultant's eye widened as his mind raced with possibilities of what John Watkins had planned for him.

He could only hope that he wouldn't get the same treatment Shannon had gotten, a cruelly slit throat and being left to die.

Malcolm felt his eyes flutter, and his head dropped heavily to the floor of the trunk. He knew that he should stay awake, that he shouldn't let his guard down when he was in the hands of a _serial killer,_ but Malcolm couldn't stop his eyes from closing, and be drifted off into nothingness soon after.

* * *

A groan softly escaped his dry and cracking lips as the NYPD consultant slowly came out of unconsciousness, his greasy and dirtied hair - soaked in some parts with the long dried blood of Shannon - falling into his eyes as the man lifted his weary head to take in his surroundings.

There was something about his surroundings that sparked a feeling of familiarity in the man as his eyes roamed the room that he had awoken in, but Malcolm couldn't place it. He could only say that he felt like he had been here before...

Malcolm made to move, to lift his aching and cold body from where it lay sprawled upon the concrete floor of the small room he found himself to be in, but the rattling of chains stopped him. Malcolm grimaced as he glanced down, eyes taking in the handcuffs locked tightly - almost too tightly judging by the slight reddening of the skin upon his wrists - around his wrists, chains dangling from them and leading to a metal loop anchored in the floor. He wouldn't be getting out of here anytime soon.

The chains had enough length to allow Malcolm to sit up, which he did, but they surely won't comfortable, and it made moving around awkward, and it was hard to get comfortable. But Malcolm supposed he couldn't expect a serial killer to have five-star rooming.

"I told you to stop snooping." Malcolm jumped as a voice interrupted his thoughts, his head whipping upwards to search for the source.

"You didn't listen. It's your own fault you're here you know." John Watkins lounged against the far wall, outside of Malcolm's reach. "It's your fault that that poor old cop had to die, eh?" Watkins sighed, crossing his arms as he stepped closer, dropping to a crouch as he leaned into the light. "But I won't complain. It'll certainly be nice to spend some quality time with you, little Malcolm. We're certainly going to have to make up for lost time." Watkins tilted his head, eyebrows creeping together as a slight frown crossed his lips. "It'll be a real shame if you don't survive."

"S-Survive what?" Malcolm felt a chill run down his spine. He wasn't sure if he wanted to know what this man had planned.

"Why, your trials of course. I had to survive mine, and it made me a _better _man, and it will do the same for you." Watkins chuckled, rising to his feet, towering over Malcolm's kneeling form.

"You can't keep me here forever! They will find me, and they will find you!" Malcolm spat at the man, but the fear in his eyes and the tremor in his voice gave him away.

"Silly. They'll never find this place. Anyways," Watkins smirked. "I doubt even you remember this place much."

"Where..?" Malcolm furrowed his brow. So he *_had_* been here before. But when..?

"Malcolm, Malcolm. You don't remember?" Watkins shrugged, a mocking frown placed upon his lips. "A shame that you would forget this place. It's certainly the perfect place for a camping trip. Perfect for a delightful boys weekend, just the three of us."

Malcolm inhaled sharply, eyes widening as fragments and scattered bits of memories returned to him, various moments and visuals flashing by in his mind as his memories of this place, this cabin in the woods, returned to him, broken into random and misplaced pieces, nothing made sense.

_"Dad? Why couldn't mom come?" Young eyes took in the interior of the cabin, a small arm tightly clutching a stuffed bear to his chest as the other hand tightly clutched the warm and comforting larger hand of his father._

_"She wouldn't like it here, my Malcolm." Martin smiled down at Malcolm. "Your mother prefers the city over nature and the wilderness. "But you and Mister Bear like it out here, right?" Martin gently, playfully, poked his son in the nose, before mirroring the motion on his son's stuffed animal that was clutched tightly in the boy's grip. "I want us to have fun this weekend! It's going to be the last trip we take together for... a while..."_

_"Daddy? I'm tired. I want to go back to the cabin."_

_"Hush, Malcolm. It's not too long now."_

_"Why do we have to go so far? And why isn't Mister John with us? You said it's dangerous to be alone out here."_

_"This is just for you and me Malcolm, one last time."_

_"Last time for what, Dad?"_

_"It's nothing, my boy..."_

_Yelling voices filled his ears. An argument. A fight. Mister John was mad at Malcolm's father. He hadn't done something that he promised._

_A glass broke, the shooting grew louder. Malcolm curled into a ball behind the curtains, hidden from sight. The boy clutched his teddy bear close to his chest for comfort._

_A scowling man, muscle-freezing fear. The boy lashed out, the man fell. The boy roused his father, who was lying dazed on the floor._

_A damp cloth was covering his mouth, his nose. He couldn't think. He couldn't breath. It was hard to stay away._

_Everything slipped away, and his head fell to rest against the chest of his father as the man picked his limp body up._

_"Rest, my boy. It's all going to be okay..."_

Malcolm shuddered, his chains shaking as he trembled, the memories fading as he returned to reality, to the small room that he was held in.

"Why did you bring me here? What do you want with me?!" Malcolm strained against his bindings, but it was all for naught.

Watkins frowned, eyes narrowing at Malcolm's hostility.

"I am giving you the answers that you so desperately desire, little Malcolm." Watkins the smiled, white teeth gleaming in the dim light of the cell as his lips split apart. "And the best part," Watkins chuckled lowly. "I'll make you like me. Like your father. If you survive."

Watkins left the room, his chilling chuckle cut off by the closing of the door behind him.

Malcolm sat, eyes open wide but staring at nothing.

What was he to do?

He could only hope and pray for Gil - For JT, Dani, _anyone_\- to burst through that door and rescue him from this confusing hell.

"Please..." A soft whisper was the only thing to leave him, his eyes slipping close as he lowered his body to the floor, weariness taking ahold of him.

Silence was the only response.


End file.
